


Refiner's Fire

by JediRobertHogan



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: "i love these people and wow they love me too", Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Hogan just...cares so much, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reflection, Team as Family, Torture, Whump, and gets it, could be Hogan/Kinch if you want, self-sacrificing, this is soft tho I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediRobertHogan/pseuds/JediRobertHogan
Summary: The men knew Hogan looked after them—more than was typical of a commander and his crew. It was in the little things, the details of everyday life, yet sometimes it struck them in undeniable ways. They saw Colonel Hogan as more than a commanding officer, and knew, somehow, that he saw them differently too.- or -Four times Colonel Hogan took care of his men, and one time they took care of him.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. The Men

**Author's Note:**

> My first HH fic is finally done! Did not expect it to get this long but what can I say, they are inspiring. Did some experimenting with the writing style and ending, let me know what you think <3

Colonel Robert E. Hogan was a leader. 

He solidly held the respect and admiration of the entire camp, prisoners and guards alike. He could bring a hundred men to order without raising his voice, shoot the tires of a moving vehicle at forty yards, and dig a tunnel for hours without flagging. He was a whispered legend in England’s highest brass and a commander of the underground war machine that splintered the foundation of the Third Reich. 

To his core team of men, the four who served with him through every waking hour, he invoked a different response. To them, of course, he was still a hero, but the admiration and respect they held for him came from a very different place.

Colonel Hogan wasn’t just a leader: they were five parts of a whole, intertwined in a way that was different than a normal military unit. In the time they were together, the four of them had come to see Hogan as more than a commanding officer, and in turn, realize how he saw them.

This knowledge did not come all at once or even as a result of large events, but built up slowly, over the endless days and nights they spent together. Being so close, they saw him as no one else did...

  
  


****

  
  


Newkirk nearly fell down the ladder, stumbling as he tried to steady himself. His head pounded as he staggered down the tunnel toward the main branch, putting a hand out to brace some of his weight on the wall. Slowly, he guided himself around a corner, only to slam right into someone’s chest. There was a yelp, and hands grabbed him.

”Hey, what’s going on?” 

Newkirk looked up at Colonel Hogan’s confused face and sagged back against the wall. 

“You alright?” the officer asked. “You can’t be out of the cooler.”

Newkirk groaned. “Ah ‘cor, sir. Don’t make me go back.”

The colonel frowned. “You have to. Klink’s tightened security so I can’t get you out, and the guards will be checking more often. We can’t afford any trouble until the mission’s over.”

Newkirk knew this, but was hoping desperately that something had changed. He rubbed his face, wondering if the trembling was very noticeable, though he knew Hogan would catch it anyway. He would give anything for LeBeau’s comforting presence right now, but his French shadow was leading the escape and not due back for hours, maybe he was in danger this very minute. It wasn’t until he bumped into something again that Newkirk realized Colonel Hogan had guided him back to the ladder, shaking him gently. 

“C’mon, I’ll go with you,” he urged.

Slowly and stiffly, Newkirk climbed up and out the tunnel, his desperate heaves of air the only sound in the tight space. Being late at night, the cell was mostly dark, with only a scattering of light from the hallway. As soon as Newkirk’s knees hit the cement floor, he was swallowed up again.

_Another explosion sent his ears ringing as he pressed himself into the corner of the bunker, clutching Thomson’s body. Sometime between getting hit and Newkirk dragging him to the shelter, he was gone, but Newkirk couldn’t let go. There were dead men already in the bunker, probably from a grenade or cannon blast, and a large chunk of the wall was missing. The thick stench of blood and gunsmoke choked him, and every inch of him was caked with sweat, sand, and soot. Through the gap he could see the beach, covered with bodies, and in the distance, the last of the British fleet pulling away._

_Fear flowed like ice through his veins, the kind that alters a person forever, and choking despair followed. Prying his fingers from Thomson’s body, he crawled to the doorway, peering out for an opportunity to escape. Another explosion rocked the ground, not as close as the first, and Newkirk took the chance to raise to a crouch and start out of the opening._

_A barrage of fire sprayed the ground and wall, kicking up dirt and showering him with bits of debris. He threw himself back into the darkness, striking his head on the floor hard enough to see stars. Stomach lurching, he shrank back against the damp cement, the walls closing in and suffocating him. He was well and truly pinned, and now he had given his position away. More gunshots and footsteps sounded closer, and Newkirk closed his eyes. His pistol was out of ammo and he was outnumbered, they would probably shoot him the instant they entered the bunker._

“Newkirk!”

_His entire squad was dead, and the retreating forces probably thought he was too. He heaved for breath, vision tunneling. Help me, please! His mind screamed. Don’t leave me here!_

“Come on, buddy. Breathe.”

_Shadows appeared in the entrance. Newkirk tried to raise his hands, but they were held in place by something, a gentle pressure around his wrists. The silence drifted on, and he hadn’t been shot yet. He risked a gulp of air._

“That’s it. Good.” 

Newkirk blinked. The cement walls around him remained the same, but the scene slowly changed. He was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up and hands clutching his head, with familiar brown trousers in his line of vision. The pressure on his wrists was the colonel’s hands wrapped around them, thumbs moving in a small back-and-forth motion. 

“You with me?”

Slowly, Newkirk’s gaze travelled up. Colonel Hogan was knelt in front of him, sober-faced and eyes worried. Newkirk sucked in a shaky breath. The smell of smoke lingered. 

“LeBeau threw a fit when he heard you were put in solitary,” Hogan murmured. “Now I know why.” He tugged at the younger man’s wrists and guided him up to sit on the bed.

“‘Was trapped in a pillbox at Dunkirk with me dead mate,” Newkirk rasped. He collapsed on the cot and pulled one leg up, dropping his forehead into crossed arms to avoid looking at the room. He was shaking hard, desperately fighting the bone-deep cold, and the lingering deadly shadows in the edge of his vision. 

Hogan settled next to him, a warm line pressed into his side, shoulder to knee. Newkirk could feel each of his slow breaths, and half-heartedly tried to match them. He floated in a daze, expecting Hogan to say something more, but the comforting silence remained. 

After a moment the colonel shifted, sliding an arm around Newkirk and reaching up to brush a hand through his hair. Newkirk’s eyes stung and he squeezed them tight, letting his head slump down to Hogan’s shoulder. 

They sat in silence for an amount of time neither cared to decipher. In any other circumstance, especially with an audience, Newkirk would never allow himself to show weakness like this, to be comforted like he was a child. He shrank a bit, shame creeping up his spine, but the arm around him tightened.

“It’s not a weakness, corporal.” Colonel Hogan’s voice was soft but firm, and Newkirk scoffed weakly.

“Again with the bloody mind-reading, colonel.”

“Doesn’t take much with you.” 

There was a smirk in the man’s voice and Newkirk turned it over in his head. He prided himself on paying his cards close to his chest, on keeping a careful front, and couldn’t imagine the colonel reading him so easily. 

“Thank you, sir,” he muttered finally. “But don’t you have more important things to do than babysit me?”

“The others have it covered,” Hogan removed his cap and set it on the bed. “All we can do is wait.” He shifted to get more comfortable, retracting his arm, and Newkirk copied him, uncurling and leaning back against the wall. The cold wasn’t so terrible now, but he still shivered occasionally. 

“You know, I’ve never been trapped in a room,” Hogan said suddenly. “But being with a dying crewmate…” He trailed off and Newkirk looked over. The colonel’s head was tipped back to the wall, distantly starting at the ceiling, and arms wrapped around himself in his signature way.

“When I commanded the bomber group,” he said softly, “There was this one plane that came back absolutely shot to hell. The pilot was conscious enough to land, but most of the crew were already dead at their stations. The ball turret gunner—he was just a kid, really—got trapped in when the turret was too damaged to retract. They had the emergency crew come to cut him out, and I went over there.” 

“He was so scared.” Hogan nearly whispered. “His blood was all over the turret. I could barely fit my arms inside to hold his hand and brush his hair from his face. He kept asking about the crew, but I lied. Didn’t have the heart to tell him they were dead.” 

Newkirk swallowed hard, the undisguised grief in Hogan’s voice welling in his own chest. 

“By the time they managed to get him free, it was too late. He was only eighteen.” The Colonel turned his head, meeting Newkirk’s gaze. “Sometimes I still see his face.” 

Newkirk remained silent. There was nothing to say. They sat there together in silence, mourning in their own ways. Hogan was a steadying presence beside him, and it gave Newkirk the strength to acknowledge his own pain instead of shoving it away. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to try so hard to hide the broken pieces. Deep down, he knew the others would understand, but years of pride and defensive walls were hard to overcome. 

After a long while Hogan inhaled deeply, turning to Newkirk. “You have a sister, right? Tell me about her.”

The corners of Newkirk’s mouth lifted, grateful for the change of thought. “Yeah. My Mavis, she is. Smart as a whip and ten times more trouble than me.”

“What!” 

“Cross me ‘eart.”

“Prove it.”

They chatted the time away, Newkirk reagling his commanding officer and friend with adventures from his childhood, waxing long in praise of his beloved twin. The old agonies still gripped the edges of his mind, but they were easier to fight now. 

A rattling from the hallway signalled the approach of a guard and the two men jolted. Hogan lunged to the floor and dove under the bed, snatching his hat away just as the guard entered. Newkirk feigned sleepiness as the private looked around, and gave a sloppy salute when he walked back out. 

The colonel stuck his head out from under the bed, a boyish grin splitting his face. Newkirk chuckled, affection spreading through this core, but he rubbed his arms and looked away. He still had an aloof image to maintain after all. 

A thump came from below the floor and the trapdoor lifted. Carter popped out with bright eyes, hat stuck haphazardly over his head, and Newkirk smiled for real. 

“There you are, sir!” Carter chirped. “We’re back, everything went like clockwork.”

“Perfect,” Hogan replied, standing up. “Keep Newkirk company while I debrief everyone.”

“Yes, sir!”

Carter exited the tunnel and the colonel entered, sending Newkirk a wink before disappearing. Newkirk hid a grin and settled down on the cot, preparing for a night of continuous chatter before the youngest of the group fell asleep. The boy genius immediately launched into an elaborate story and Newkirk grabbed the threadbare pillow, stuffing it on Carter’s face. It did nothing to stem the flow of words, and he removed the item to reveal a bright grin.

“Yer’ a real menace, Andrew,” he huffed. Said menace giggled and fluffed the blankets like he was at a sleepover. 

“Yeah, ok Peter. Why don’t you tell me why the colonel’s spending so much time with you?”

Newkirk shifted uncomfortably. “‘E spends time with all of us, ‘m not special.” 

“Aw, sure you are,” Carter bumped him with his shoulder. “But I think Colonel Hogan has a knack for knowing when someone needs him.”

Newkirk pondered the statement, realizing it made sense in light of their interactions with the officer. “You know, you might be on’ta something there?”

Hogan returned a couple hours later. Ushering a sleepy-but-still-talking Carter down the tunnel, he came back to the cot and plucked the hat off Newkirk’s head. 

“Give me your jacket,” he said, and Newkirk handed it over, confused. The colonel removed his own jacket and put on Newkirk’s, gesturing for him to get up. “Get back to the barracks, huh? I’ll come get ‘ya in the morning.”

Hogan flopped onto the bed face down, arranging the blanket over him so anyone who looked in would think he was Newkirk. The corporal lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room, the desperate need to get out of there warring with reluctance to give Hogan the same fate. The cell was cold, and the dead silence after being used to the sounds of people nearby was unnerving. 

“You sure, sir?” he finally asked, and Hogan waved a hand without looking up.

“Of course!” he said, voice muffled where his face was pressed into the sorry excuse for a pillow. “I was looking forward to a quiet night with no disturbances.”

Fortunately or unfortunately, Newkirk could read Hogan nearly as well as the officer could read him. The cheerfulness was obviously false, but the corporal knew better than to push it. He looked down at the leather jacket in his hands.

“Thank you.”

Hogan hummed sleepily, and Newkirk smiled. 

  
  
  


**********

  
  


Sergeant Kinchloe sat at the radio table, head in his hands. Newkirk, Lebeau, Carter, and Colonel Hogan had been gone six hours, three past the expected return time, and he’d been here for all of it, staring at his watch while growing steadily more sick to his stomach. When his legs had cramped he’d paced for a while, then napped with the headset on in case a message came through. 

The waiting was the worst. Kinch had been on outside missions before, but the combination of him being the radioman and having a skin color that would blend in only in the most unique circumstances limited his field work. Out of all the missions, he most dreaded the ones where he was the only one left behind. He knew his job was important, but waiting in silence, not knowing what had happened, hurt a little more each time. 

This mission had a high risk of being a trap, and the colonel ordered the evacuation to begin immediately if they did not return by a certain time. Kinch had wished them good luck and watched them climb out the tunnel, wanting nothing more than to drag them back and hide them ‘till they were safe. He should have hugged them, should have said more, should have done anything other than what he did. Now he was left in the damp tunnel, watching the seconds tick by until his life changed forever. 

They had been late many times before, but if Colonel Hogan’s deadline ever arrived then something had gone terribly wrong, and it was up to Kinch to close up the operation and clear camp immediately, he had the procedure memorized. Kinch glanced at his watch again. 

One hour left.

If the time came, he couldn’t even organize a rescue for his best friends, but had to take away their only hope. Kinch tried to steady his breathing, but it didn’t work, and he ripped off the headset in frustration.

The silence was oppressive. The sounds of his own heartbeat, uneven breaths, and the second hand of his watch ticking was driving him insane. He stood up and began pacing again, trembling as the panic started to build. He had to stay calm and level-headed enough to carry out his duty. Colonel Hogan could have done it, if all of them were dead. Kinch wouldn’t let him down.

A thump from the tunnel exit made him freeze. A creak of the ladder came next and Kinch lunged for the weapons rack, grabbing a pistol and taking cover behind the support beam. If they had been discovered, it would be too late for even an evacuation, and through the pumping adrenaline, hope and dread battled in his chest. 

Shuffling and more creaking of the ladder followed, and Kinch heard voices―Colonel Hogan’s low murmurs and Lebeau’s soft lilt. They didn’t sound distressed and Kinch slumped forward against the beam, dropping the gun onto the table. The flood of relief left him weak and he stumbled to the entryway just as the others arrived, dirty and exhausted. The sight of them was like a blow to the stomach.

“Took you long enough!” Kinch snapped, voice cracking as he spoke for the first time in so many hours.

All heads swiveled in his direction and instantly they were talking all over themselves. LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter were loudly protesting and explaining the problems they faced, but Kinch didn’t want to hear it. He felt like he was going to shake into little pieces at any minute. 

Hogan quieted the other three and sent them to the wardrobe room to change. He lingered after them calling instructions, giving Kinch time to discreetly wipe his eyes while the colonel’s back was turned. 

“Boy, what a night,” Hogan groaned, walking back. “It was a trap, but a double one. The underground was there to snag the guy after he snagged us, but because of the patrols he had us all the way in Stuttgart before they could catch us.” He paused and waved his hand. “Nevermind, it’s all over now. Any action here?”

Kinch shook his head, trying to process the information. He was still on edge, standing stiffly as if hell would break loose at any minute. The colonel was looking at him carefully and Kinch forced his muscles to relax. They were back. He didn’t need to freak out and make them think he couldn’t have handled things. 

“You alright?”

Kinch shrugged without making eye contact. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Hogan gave him a look, then glanced at his watch and sighed. He approached and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Talk to me.”

Kinch looked up at his commanding officer, standing directly in front of him, close enough to touch. His eyes were focused on Kinch like there was nothing better he should be doing than hear what Kinch had to say, and when their gazes met something shifted in Hogan’s eyes, an understanding.

“The waiting,” Kinch blurted. “I have to sit here and not know what happened, and what if you guys need help? I’m going crazy, not knowing, not doing anything, while you’re out there, and I know it’s necessary and all part of the mission-” he broke off, catching his breath. “- and I’ll do it for the next hundred years, but...”

“We cut it close tonight.”

Kinch cursed. He slumped against the wall, the weight of the colonel’s attention too much when all he wanted to do was crawl in a hole and stop existing for a while. He knew Hogan could see right through him. They had a history the other men didn’t, and could read each other with a look, but Kinch wanted to hide this fear, one that made him look like a poor soldier. 

“Rob,” he breathed. 

The colonel pulled him in, arms wrapping around him tightly, and Kinch held the other man to him as close as he could. He couldn’t hide the trembling anymore, but the hands digging into his shoulder and side were like anchors. Kinch closed his eyes, trying to absorb the steady reassurance. Eventually they heard the others coming back, and Hogan released him with a sigh. He rubbed Kinch’s arm and made his way to the radio station, beckoning them. 

“Come over here, guys. I’ve got a change I’d like to talk about.”

They clustered around the table and Newkirk casually bumped into Kinch, giving him a questioning look. Kinch gave him a small smile in return, and the British corporal nodded, directing his attention elsewhere. 

“What is it, _Colonel?_ ” LeBeau asked.

“Ok, we all had a rough time of it and cut things a little too close,” Hogan said, looking around the solemn group of faces. “Now, it’s nobody’s fault, but it’d be a good idea to rethink some of our procedures. From now on, when we split for missions, there will always be _two_ of us here at all times. If something goes haywire at least we won’t have too many of us in one basket. Plus, the emergency procedures are too much for one person to handle efficiently. Any questions?”

“No sir, I think it’s a good idea,” Carter piped up. The others nodded. 

“Alright, everybody go get some sleep. It’s only a few hours ‘till roll call.”

Kinch lay flat on his back, staring at the underside of the bunk above. Every 28 seconds, a sliver of light from the northwest searchlight traveled across the space. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since they had all clambered up. Though he was exhausted, his racing thoughts and the hollow aching in his body wouldn't let him rest. Sighing, he turned to face the wall. 

The click of a door opening broke the stillness, and soft footsteps approached his bunk. Kinch looked over his shoulder, and the next sweep of light revealed Hogan wrapped up in a blanket.

“Scoot over,” he whispered.

Kinch moved closer to the wall and the colonel climbed in behind him. The bunk was narrow, but they knew the best way to fit by heart. After a bit of shuffling Hogan ended up with an arm thrown over Kinch, forehead pressed to the sergeant’s back.

“Knew you weren’t asleep,” Hogan murmured. 

Kinch hummed. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing mind. One thought above all had been impossible to banish, and Kinch finally voiced it.

“Why did you make that policy change tonight?” 

Hogan shifted, then shrugged. “It’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, but. That’s not the only reason, is it?”

Hogan didn’t respond, and for a few minutes they just breathed together, taking comfort in each other’s presence. After a while Hogan spoke again, a whisper solemn in the darkness.

“We’re not leaving you, James.”

Gripping the blanket, Kinch swallowed against the painful lump in his throat. He wanted to fight, to insist that promises like that could not possibly be made, but his head hurt, and more than anything he wanted to give in just this once. He could rest in the knowledge that the others were here, safe. Just for tonight. 

He still couldn’t speak. The ache in his lungs expanded and he grasped Hogan’s arm that was draped over him, clutching it to his chest. Fingers tangled with his own, and surrounded by Rob’s warmth, he learned to breathe again.

  
  


******

  
  


Sirens wailed in the distance but LeBeau ignored it. He had a spacious hotel kitchen at his disposal, and was going to enjoy every minute. Stirring the last of the lemon raspberry sauce, he turned off the stove, yawning as the busy day began to catch up to him. He hoped the high-ranking German generals upstairs appreciated his effort, even though it was all for espionage anyway.

As disastrous as the colonel was in the kitchen, LeBeau thought he could at least manage placing mint sprigs on the dessert, but even that was a challenge with how distracted Hogan was. LeBeau rolled his eyes as the man left his task for the hundredth time to peer out the window.

“I don’t like it,” Hogan said. “Something’s gonna happen, I just know it.” 

“Relax, _mon colonel_ , everything is going fine. We have the troop movements from Heimstadt,” LeBeau patted the envelope in his pocket, “Even the _Dacquoise_ came out perfectly.” He gave a dramatic chef’s kiss to the plated desserts, satisfied when it changed the colonel’s worried face to a smile. The hotel waiters still hustled back and forth to the dining room upstairs, and LeBeau began stacking the returned plates from the previous courses, tutting when he saw their contact hadn’t finished his drink. 

“Such a magnificent French wine and he doesn’t even finish it,” he griped. “Even if he is sympathetic to the Allies, he’s still an ungrateful _boche_.” He picked up the glass and drank the last little bit, savoring the smooth flavor. A bit more tangy than expected, but still the highest quality. Absently he wondered if it was from the Mediterranean coast, which would explain the sharper taste of the grapes from its mineral-rich soil. 

He sighed, putting away the thoughts of his homeland, and the two men silently continued their work. The night bustle of the street outside was relaxing, and the familiar motions of cooking pushed the worries of war to the back of his mind. He tasted a bit of the sauce, and carried the pot to the table where the desserts were laid out. 

“Colonel Hogan!” Schultz’s bellowing cry shattered the calm as the portly sergeant flew into the kitchen. The colonel nearly dropped the plates he was carrying and LeBeau yelped as the sauce flew from the spoon. “Colonel Hogan!” Schultz sputtered. “G-G-General Heimstadt...is _dead_!” 

“What!” they both cried in sync. 

Schultz flung up his arms in dismay. “He started slurring and complaining of pain, and just fell over! _Der_ _Krankenwagen_ came to pick him up.” 

That explained the sirens. Hogan and LeBeau exchanged a look. “Did they say what was wrong?” Hogan asked. 

“Hm, the medical men said it looked like poisoning,” Schultz said, and the colonel blanched. 

“But they’ll blame us then, Schutlz. We didn’t even do it!” he insisted, but the sergeant waved him away. 

“No, they already arrested his aide, who was blabbering that Heimstadt was a traitor and needed to be disposed of.” Schultz shook his head. “Such a shame. Let’s get back to camp, boys, before they decide to question us too.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” the colonel said, grabbing his jacket. “C’mon LeBeau, let's get out of here. Forget the dessert.”

LeBeau wilted, looking back at the delicate cakes he had worked so hard on. Hogan must have seen his dismay, and grabbed some empty boxes by the door. 

“Here, we’ll take ‘em back for the guys.” 

LeBeau nodded in relief and began packing the cakes. He was awfully tired. It would be nice to be in bed right now, and away from the headache throbbing behind his eyes. He shook his head to clear the fog, but it only made him dizzy, and he stumbled into the counter. Funny, he hadn’t realized how difficult it was to get a deep breath, and why was his heart pounding?

Hogan looked at him sharply. “You alright?”

“I...yes. Just breathing…” He squinted, focusing hard on getting air in his lungs, hands trembling on the edge of the counter. Pain splintered through his stomach, spreading inside his ribcage, and the horrible realization hit him. He turned to the colonel, grabbing his arm to get his attention.

“I drank from Heimstadt’s glass.”

There was a pause, then Hogan cursed so viciously that LeBeau blinked in surprise. At that moment, his knees buckled and he caught himself on a rolling cart, the clatter of utensils hurting his ears. The colonel was immediately at his side, holding him up with both arms. 

“S’alright,” LeBeau slurred. “Was a smaller dose.”

“You’re a smaller guy,” Hogan retorted. “Hang in there, we’ll get you help.”

LeBeau gasped as another wave of pain shot through him. His vision was tunneling, and suddenly terrified, he clutched at Hogan’s arms. The colonel was yelling at Schultz and with every passing second LeBeau fought to remain conscious. Slowly, everything grew silent and peaceful, with only a faint ringing and muffled voices drifting by. He felt himself being lifted, and when the next wave of pain came, he slipped under.

He surfaced to flashes of voices and pricks in his arm. The voices cleared—unfamiliar, and speaking German—and the threat of hostile strangers made LeBeau’s eyes fly open. Bright light pierced his skull, and he cried out in pain.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright, take it easy.”

A blurry brown shape appeared in his peripheral. Warm hands cradled his face, and LeBeau realized he had never been so cold in his life. He felt a strange sort of detachment to his body, even though he was shivering uncontrollably and heaving great gulps of air. Everything was numb and muted. Absently, he thought he should be scared, but he felt like he was wrapped in a thick blanket of cotton, white and soft. 

He closed his eyes against the barrage of colors and latched onto the colonel’s voice. Something hard was shoved onto his face, and slowly, blissfully, his lungs began to clear. He gulped in breath after breath, until another prick sent him under again. 

He surfaced once more to an uneven rocking motion, and warmth. His whole body ached but he could breathe easily, the sharp pain and terror reduced to a clouded memory. A jerk and a squeak alerted him that he was in the back of the truck they had come in, and when he opened his eyes it was mostly dark. 

Tiny silver wings on an army-tan collar glinted in the streetlight, and it took another few blinks to realize he was being held to the colonel’s chest, head tucked in the officer’s neck. Lifting his head was far too much effort, so he let himself slowly adjust to being awake. 

“LeBeau?”

He felt the quiet word as much as heard it, and hummed in response. The colonel’s arms tightened around him, and LeBeau felt himself rise and fall as the other sighed. 

“How’re you feeling?” Hogan asked.

“Tired,” LeBeau said. “Dizzy.” 

“Just rest, we’ll be back in camp soon. The doctor’s said you’ll be fine.” Hogan’s voice was calm, but LeBeau knew him well enough to detect the underlying strain. Wanting to reassure him, he fumbled to lift his arms, only to realize he was wearing the other man’s worn leather jacket. The sleeves were far too long, and LeBeau wiggled his barely-seen fingers. Hogan chuckled. 

“You looked cold.”

LeBeau nodded. “I was. _Merci_.” He freed a hand and patted his friend’s shoulder, relieved when he felt some of the tension in the colonel’s body relax. 

Colonel.

It didn’t feel like a rank when LeBeau said it. It was a name, just like Pierre, or Andre, or Kinch. A name attached to a sly grin, a warm touch, and a strong heart of gold. In his sleepy state LeBeau indulged his natural sentimentality, relaxing into his friend’s arms. They may have been in the middle of a brutal war, but with the heartbeat against his cheek, LeBeau had never felt so safe.

He drifted, teasing the edge of sleep until the truck stopped and a clamor of voices roused him. Then there was more movement as he was transferred to another pair of arms and a broad chest.

“-ospital...be alright, get him to bed,” the colonel was saying. Through the haze LeBeau realized the familiar hands and voice were leaving and he flailed blindly. A deep soothing voice came from the chest holding him and LeBeau recognized Kinch. Frantic blinking revealed the hand on his arm was Newkirk’s, whose smile contrasted his worried eyes. 

“Colonel’s gone to see Klink, you’re alright mate.” 

“You sure scared us, boy,” Carter piped in. “Can you walk?”

LeBeau nodded slowly, swinging his legs, and Kinch lowered him to the ground. With the tall American on one side and Newkirk on the other, they made their way to the barracks, Carter fussing and skittering around them all the way. 

Inside the barracks they guided LeBeau to a bunk closest to the warm stove. He settled in a daze, letting Newkirk tuck the blankets around him and the sounds of the barracks lull him back to slumber. Carter had just made himself comfortable at the foot of his bed when the door opened and Colonel Hogan entered. The group huddled around him with quiet discussion LeBeau didn’t bother listening too, only slightly rousing at a soft gasp. 

“The cakes!” Hogan whispered. The others must have given him confused looks, because he elaborated: “LeBeau made little cakes and we brought them back. Newkirk, get the camp cook and unload them from the truck we were in, before the krauts get ‘em.”

“Yes, sir.”

LeBeau must have fallen asleep then, because the next thing he knew he was awoken by a thump, followed by _shh_ -ing and hurried apologies. Curious, he cracked open his eyes to see what the fuss was about. Carter was chasing the potato now rolling across the floor while Kinch sat at the table, methodically chopping the vegetables strewn around him. Newkirk and Hogan were huddled around a pot on the stove, stirring and trying to taste the results. LeBeau watched the activity in amusement. He wanted to stay awake to enjoy the show, but kept slipping in and out. Many yelps, hisses, and whispered arguments later, they were shaking him awake and propping him up. A steaming bowl was placed in his hands. Three eager faces quickly surrounded him, while Colonel Hogan stood back with an exasperated-yet-fond expression. 

The soup was watery and needed garlic, but it was so full of love LeBeau had never tasted anything so delicious. 

******

Carter blinked rainwater out of his eyes as he gingerly took another step along the slick beam, clutching the C4 and timers with one hand while clinging to the wooden supports with the other. The hastily constructed bridge was intended to be temporary, but the troops due to cross it in the next few days had to be stalled. It was just their luck that the biggest rainstorm of the season happened tonight.

“You alright Carter?” Colonel Hogan’s voice came from behind him.

“Yessir,” Carter replied, double checking that the rope attaching him to the colonel was still tight around his waist. It had taken the two of them nearly 15 minutes to pick their way towards the middle of the bridge, or more accurately, its underside. Carter carefully avoided looking down the 80-foot drop to the stirring water and rocks below. They were already drenched to the bone and shivering, and Carter huffed as he prepared to place the first charge. 

“Man, I can’t believe Cinderella didn’t show,” he called over his shoulder

“Could have gotten lost,” Hogan replied. “Visibility is down to zero in the woods.”

“But now we have to plant these along the whole bridge instead of just half. Boy, that’s gonna take us twice and long and it’s almost morning! I bet those patrols-”

“Wait, what’s that?” 

Carter turned to the colonel who had his back pressed to the beams, looking down with a nervous expression on his face. Over the sound of the rain, a faint rumbling could be heard, steadily getting louder. They peered through the dark for the source, but it was a few minutes before Carter noticed something. 

“Hey look, the water!”

Below them, the small river was swelling into a rage, water level rising before their eyes. Dirt and rock from the cliffside were torn off by the rapids, and debris was filling the river, pounding the support beams merely propped up on the largest boulders below. 

“A dam must have broken upstream,” Carter commented. The bridge shuddered beneath them, and for a second they stood frozen. Then shock gave way to panic as Hogan gave him a shove. 

“Go, go!” he snapped.” The water will take out the bridge for us.” 

The rain was slowing, and the faint morning light made it easier to see, but the trembling of the bridge became worse with each step. The sound was like thunder now, and the water was boiling below them. Carter moved as fast as he could, feeling out footholds without looking down. 

A loud crack made Carter yelp and he grabbed the nearest plank as the bridge jolted sideways. One of the cross beams ahead of them broke loose and plummeted toward the rage below, striking the main support on it’s way down. The impact made them both lose their balance, and Carter dropped the equipment he was holding to cling with both hands. His relief turned to horror when he heard a cry, and turned to see Colonel Hogan’s feet slip from under him. He flung out his hands to catch himself, but missed by a hair’s breadth and fell. 

“No!” Carter yelled, but in a split second the rope between them had pulled taut, yanking him flat and slamming his chest to the edge of a beam. Pain blinded him for a second and he struggled to breathe, fumbling for another hold while more beams broke and fell. The bridge creaked and groaned like a waking giant, and Carter fearfully looked down.

The colonel, still swinging, was trying to pull himself up, but the combination of rain-slick rope and cold fingers made it impossible. He was too far to reach, but close enough that Carter could see the panic on his face. 

“It’s OK, I’ll pull you up!” Carter panted. Risking letting go with one hand, he tugged and heaved at the rope, but it didn’t budge. A wave of agony accompanied every movement, both from his chest being crushed and the rope digging into his back with Hogan’s weight. He alternated with the other hand, but it was just as futile.

“I can’t do it!” he called. The bridge shifted again and he bit back a scream, gritting his teeth as the colonel swayed helplessly. 

“Carter!” Hogan’s voice drifted up over the roar of the water. “Carter, cut the rope.” 

A cold terror smothered the young sergeant, worse than the rain and bitter wind around them. “What?”

“It’s the only way, just do it,” Hogan ordered, and Carter shook his head frantically.

“I won’t, I won’t,” he cried. 

“That’s an order, Sergeant.”

Tears mixed with the rain on Carter’s face as his gaze met the colonel’s again. The fear and resigned sadness in his friend’s eyes would haunt him as long as he lived, and Carter’s panic hardened into defiance. Wedging his feet between beams, he moved both hands to the rope and began pulling. The coarse rope slipped through his gloves, and every movement of the bridge caused what little progress he made to slip away. With another crack the bridge jolted, and Carter screamed as the rope crushed his chest. Hogan turned to his belt, fumbling for his own knife, and Carter’s heart stopped.

“No, no,” he sobbed, pulling at the rope with all his might. He would rather die together. This...this was unacceptable. 

Colonel Hogan freed his own knife and began sawing hard at the rope. Carter screamed wordlessly, begging any power―the great spirits of his childhood, LeBeau’s god―to save them. 

Through his despair, a sound caught his attention, and he lifted his head. Through the dim light he could just make out a figure at the end of the bridge, waving their arms. “Someone’s there!” he called to Hogan, and they both froze. The figure ran across the top of the fractured bridge, stopping just above them. 

“Are you the step-sisters?” the stranger called. 

“Cinderella?” Carter gasped. “Hey, help us up!” The man quickly locked in a grappling hook into the boards, bracing himself against the swaying bridge. He threw a loop down to Hogan, hauling him up, then Carter after. 

“Run!” the man commanded. With a deafening rumble, the center of the bridge disappeared and the three of them bolted without looking back. They reached the bank and turned to see the bridge crumbling piece by piece, piling up in the gorge and causing the water to shoot up over it. By now the sky was lightening through the clouds, and the patrols would be coming soon. 

Colonel Hogan was bent over, catching his breath with hands braced on his knees. “Thank you,” he said breathlessly. “Can you take us to Stalag 13?”

‘Cinderella’ nodded. “In my car. I will drop you off at the nearest road.”

Carter’s back and chest were on fire. He stumbled into Hogan, who quickly straightened up and put an arm around him. Carter couldn’t help it, he buried his face in Hogan’s black, dripping turtleneck and threw his arms around him. Hogan’s arms came up to squeeze him tightly, then released, untying the rope that held them together.

“We gotta go,” he said, gentle but firm. 

The trek to the car and subsequent ride to camp was a blur for Carter. The next thing he knew he was in the barracks, stripped of his wet clothes with a blanket around him, trembling like a baby deer while LeBeau patted his face with a worried expression. 

“You alright, _mon pote?"_

Carter jolted. “Colonel Hogan-”

LeBeau tipped his head to where Hogan was bundled in Newkirk’s blue overcoat and getting coffee from Kinch. 

Carter burst into tears. 

Ignoring the worried exclamations of the others, he stalked towards the officer, shaking with more than just the cold. 

“You ordered me!” he cried, voice rising in volume. “You ordered me, how _could_ you?”

Hogan put down his mug to grab Carter’s shoulders as the young man nearly ran into him. Carter fought the hold out of spite. He didn’t want to stand there while the colonel just looked at him with those eyes that were so infuriatingly kind-

“Carter,” Hogan said sharply, tightening his grip. Carter stopped struggling, still breathing hard and glaring. Up close, he realized how exhausted the other man looked; more than just a mission’s worth. He looked worn to the bone. Seeing Carter had calmed, the colonel released him, voice quieting.

“Andrew, I’m sorry.” 

“No you’re not.”

Hogan swallowed hard, opening his mouth to reply, then paused. “I’m not sorry for the order,” he said finally. “But I’m sorry that it hurt you. I wasn’t _trying_ to hurt you, you know that. We _are_ at war, and we do what we have to, do you understand?”

Fear and bitterness still swirled in his gut, but it was hard to stay mad when the colonel made such a fragile picture, nearly swallowed in Newkirk’s coat with his wet hair falling on his forehead. Carter looked down and shuffled his feet. Slowly, his anger dimmed, and he began to slump.

“I know, sir,” he said finally, then, “Are you alright?”

A hint of a smile crossed the colonel’s face and he patted Carter’s cheek. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s you that needs to get looked at.”

“‘E’s right mate,” Newkirk cut in, muscling Carter onto the bench. “Some right nasty bruises you got there, Wilson’s gonna check you out.”

Carter looked down. Half of his chest was covered in angry purple bruises, and his back was crossed with red and bleeding rope marks. Wilson, whom he hadn’t noticed before, started to treat him with the antiseptic that stung like wasps, but for once, Carter didn’t flinch. Colonel Hogan sat down next to him and the other three joined them, faces somber and expectant. 

“What happened?” LeBeau demanded. 

Hogan told the story in his stoic, mission-report style, while the other three sat in stricken silence. Carter slumped into Newkirk’s side and the Englishman pressed back, lending support as Carter rubbed his eyes harshly. Hogan sat quietly when he finished, his eyes distant and the cooling mug forgotten on the table. LeBeau placed a comforting hand on his arm, and they all huddled close, no words needed as they mulled on their own thoughts. 

Carter knew the colonel didn’t regret his decision. He also knew that any of them would have done the same in the circumstances, but it didn’t make him feel any better. One of them could be lost someday, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. He took a deep breath, letting go of the fear as best he could. For now, he needed to borrow an extra warm blanket and get some sleep. Colonel Hogan would leave his door open tonight.  
  



	2. The Colonel

Carter tossed and turned in his bunk, unable to relax. Most of the guys were asleep, but he knew Newkirk and LeBeau were also sleeping fitfully, if at all. It had been five days since Colonel Hogan disappeared on a routine mission, three since a Gestapo officer had pulled into camp and stormed into barracks two. He singled out the four of them, demanding they give him the clothes they were wearing, then left. No one had any explanation, and they were all going insane with worry. So far, the underground had been silent. Carter turned again to face the dark wall, thoughts drifting to Kinch on his never-ending shift at the radio. Maybe he should go sit with him. He rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up.

“Will you stop flailing?” Newkirk whispered from above. 

“Sorry,” Carter replied. “I was gonna go-” 

The tunnel opening clattered up, making the men stir. LeBeau sat up, grumbling, just as Kinch’s tense face appeared. 

“Someone’s coming in the tunnel!” he hissed. “And it’s not the colonel.”

The three of them leapt from their bunks and bolted for the entrance. Scrambling down the ladder, they grabbed whatever weapons were closest, and pressed together. Carter exhaled evenly, aiming a pistol down the dark corridor with a double-handed grip. 

On his left, LeBeau clutched another pistol, while Newkirk hefted an automatic on his right. Above them all loomed the barrel of Kinch’s shotgun, and the warmth of the sergeant at his back kept Carter steady as more than one set of footsteps advanced closer. 

The first to emerge into the lamplight was one of the underground members from Hammelburg, whom they knew only as Peter Pan. They released a collective breath and relaxed their stance, the sudden relief making Carter dizzy.

“What are you doing here?” Kinch snarled, “You know you can’t-” He cut off as another figure rounded the corner, and their guns snapped up again. 

“He is with us!” urged Peter Pan. “This is Prince Charming.”

Carter’s jaw dropped. Prince Charming was a legendary and secretive agent that they had never seen. He had been feeding them extremely valuable information since they had first opened business at Stalag 13, and they were under orders never to try to contact him. They lowered their weapons again as the men approached into the brighter light of the intersection. 

“Blimey,” Newkirk murmured, and Carter had to agree. Prince was very tall, with a shock of white-blond hair, blue eyes, and the ornate black uniform of an SS officer. The multiple skull-and-crossbones twinkled in the lamplight, and he was carrying what Carter now realized was another figure, wrapped completely in his massive black greatcoat. 

“Nice to meet you,” Kinch nodded, “But why are you here.”

The man looked at each of them, eyes widening. “Oh,” he breathed. “That explains a lot.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” LeBeau demanded, and Peter Pan stepped forward, pulling back the coat to reveal the bruised and bloody form of Colonel Hogan. Cries of dismay came from the group, and Carter turned to a pale LeBeau who was wavering on his feet. 

“Go get Wilson!” Carter cried, practically shoving him down the tunnel. LeBeau was gone in a flash, and the rest of them tossed their guns on the nearest surface. 

“Help us get him upstairs, we’ll put him in the office,” Kinch was saying, and the group of men worked quickly, using the coat as a hammock. By the time they laid him on his own bunk, Wilson was barging in with armfuls of supplies. He took one look and started barking orders.

“Push the table out of the way, and move the bunk so I can get to both sides.”

Mute with fear, they rushed to obey, then huddled around to help in whatever way they could. Hogan was out cold, but as Wilson began to put pressure on the worst of the wounds he jerked with a gasp. 

“Hold him down!” Wilson snapped. Newkirk and Kinch rushed to pin the officer’s arms and legs, but as soon as their weight was on him he began to thrash with raspy, voiceless cries. 

“Carter, get over here and talk to him!” Newkirk urged, and Carter rushed to the bed, crouching on the mattress as close as he could get to Hogan without being in the way. For a second his hands hovered, trying to find a spot without cuts and bruises, before giving up and placing his hand on the top of the colonel’s head. Up close he looked even worse, and Carter took a deep breath to steady himself. 

“It’s ok, you’re going to be ok, you’re safe,” he rambled, trying to ignore Wilson’s gut-turning work. Suddenly, the colonel went limp. Just when Carter was about to worry he had lost consciousness again, his eyes opened just a sliver, and Carter was slammed in the chest with how much pain he could see in them. 

“Sir?” he gulped. “Take it easy, sir. You’re gonna be ok.” 

The colonel just stared at him, eyes roaming his face, but in a second the stillness shattered and Colonel Hogan’s breathing sped up rapidly. He tensed again, slamming his eyes shut with a heart-breaking sound Carter never wanted to hear from a human again.

“Keep him calm!” Kinch begged.

“He’s scared,” Carter blurted. “He’s...I don’t know what to do!”

“That’s not going to help,” Prince suddenly broke in. “You four need to stay away.”

“We’re not leaving him!” LeBeau seethed, and the colonel thrashed again. 

“I will explain everything,” the agent said solemnly. “But it will be better for him if you did not go near him.”

Carter looked down at the colonel’s battered form, with his brow scrunched and chest heaving. Blood trickled from the cut on his neck and Carter swallowed hard. Against every instinct he carefully climbed off, tugging at the enraged LeBeau.

“He saved the colonel, we should trust him,” he said. 

With great reluctance, the other three withdrew from Hogan’s bedside, casting mistrustful glances at Prince as they filed out of the room. As Carter passed him, the agent touched his arm. 

“Could I please-” he swallowed, face harrowed. “Could I please have a change of clothes?”

“Aren’t you going back?” Carter asked, and the man shook his head.

“I can’t, I killed them all. I blew my cover.” His voice trembled, and Carter squeezed his shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’ll get you a pair of fatigues. Might be a little short on you.” 

In only a few minutes, every man in barracks two was huddled around the center table, silent and eager to hear what was going on. The core four of them, plus Prince and Pan, were seated at the table. So as not to alert the guards, a tiny lamp on the tabletop was the only thing illuminating the space, casting flickering shadows on the grim crowd of faces. 

“Alright mate, you’ve got some explaining to do.” Newkirk said, voice hushed but full of poorly concealed hostility. Prince lifted his hands in a placating gesture. Now that he was wearing an American jacket and pants like Kinch’s, he looked much less threatening and more like a beaten-down man who had been through hell.

“There is not much to say,” he said. “The Gestapo caught him, brought him in to where I was stationed. I blew my mission to get him out.”

“What’d they do to ‘im?”

“Why can’t we stay in there?”

“I saw...” Carter interrupted, and every head turned. He paused, unsure how to put it in words. “When he looked at me, he was really hurting. That can’t be all physical.”

Prince nodded. “They broke him.”

Exclamations erupted around the table, shock and queries if Hogan gave up any information, but the agent shook his head in disgust. 

“Not like that. No matter what they did he fought back, resisted. Nothing could dim that spark of defiance in his eyes, it was...inspiring. And then yesterday they brought in four men wearing your uniforms,” he gestured to the four of them. “Hand-picked men from locals and other prisoners of war to look exactly like you.”

A heavy dread settled in Carter’s stomach and he wrapped his arms around himself. The confused expressions of the men began to morph into slow, terrible comprehension.

“He was so out of it he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference anyway, but they kept their backs to him, made them lie face down on the floor.” 

Carter wished selfishly that he could be anywhere but here, to escape this awful nightmare and not hear the next words. The silence was heavy as the agent dragged a hand down his face. 

“They were shot one by one.”

LeBeau gasped and Newkirk squeezed his eyes shut. Carter’s mind raced with the horrible implications, imagination of what it must have been like for the colonel. Kinch leaned his elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him as he stared down Prince, who stared right back.

“I’ve been in that horrible place for five years,” the agent said, eyes haunted. “And I’ve never heard a man scream like that.”

  
  


****

Kinch dropped his head into his hands, holding his breath to keep from vomiting all over the table.

“That’s why I thought it best for you to stay away, for now,” Prince continued. “He thinks you’re dead, and in this state won’t be able to understand what really happened. Seeing and hearing you would only cause distress.”

Kinch nodded his head, taking a moment to steady himself. “Ok, that makes sense.” He glanced at the other three. “Only Wilson goes in there.” Though they didn’t look happy about it, he knew they would comply.

Prince breathed shakily, running a hand through his hair. “I blew my whole mission,” he said dazedly. “I don’t know what came over me, I’ve seen terrible things before...” He trailed off, looking up at Kinch. “I have to get to Switzerland.”

“Why not England?”

Prince scoffed. “They would have my head. I was one of their top agents!”

“You saved Colonel Hogan and this operation,” LeBeau insisted, but the man shook his head. 

“You saw the information I was getting. They would not see it like that.” 

Kinch leaned back, rubbing his face. “Alright,” he said finally. “We’ll do Switzerland. Peter Pan, take him out of here, get him started.”

“Right.”

The two agents stood, and the cluster of men parted to allow a pathway to the tunnel.

“Prince,” Kinch called. The man turned around, and Kinch held out a hand, looking straight into those ice-blue eyes. “Thank you.”

Prince nodded once, clasping Kinch’s hand for a moment, then disappeared down the tunnel. No sooner had the bunk entrance been closed than the door to the office opened and a ragged-looking Wilson emerged. Immediately the medic was surrounded by concerned men, but he waited until Kinch was in front of him to speak. 

“I patched him up as well as I could, he’s sleeping now.”

Newkirk crowded up behind Kinch’s shoulder. “Will he be alright?”

Wilson pulled out a bench and sat heavily. “Well, I’d say his injuries aren’t life-threatening, if taken care of properly, but…”

LeBeau practically vibrated on the spot. “But what, Wilson, come on!”

“He’s just not fighting,” the medic admitted. “I don’t know what his chances are unless he actually tries to recover. It’s like he’s given up.”

The men looked at each other. Kinch could see in their eyes they were begging him to tell Wilson the story, and not for the first time he rued his position as surrogate leader. But it was what they needed him to be, and he could never turn them down.

With a steady voice and gaze, he related to Wilson what Prince had told them, steeling himself to the reaction of his words. On his part, Wilson took it well, perhaps due to the brutal nature of his profession. When Kinch was through, Wilson blew out a breath and nodded. 

“Ok, if he thinks you’re dead, when he sees you he thinks he’s dead too, or is caused a lot of pain by seeing you.” The men winced. “He’s obviously not lucid enough to understand what really happened, so we’ll have to wait a couple days to try and explain.”

“But you said he’s not fighting!” Carter exclaimed. “How will he get better?”

Wilson thought. “It’s risky, but one of you can try to convince him now, without explaining the entire situation. Who is he most likely to listen to?”

The men pushed Kinch forward, and the sergeant’s heart leapt and sunk at the same time. He wanted to see the colonel badly, but having the task of convincing him to fight for his life? The fear of failure was too great. Slowly, he followed Wilson to the door, but the other man stopped before entering.

“He needs his sleep, but that won’t matter if he doesn’t put in an effort to recover. Good luck, sir.”

Kinch swallowed. He was about to push open the door when he felt a nudge at his side, and looked down at LeBeau’s serious expression. 

“Moral support?” the Frenchman asked. “I’ll stay quiet and out of sight.”

Kinch nodded gratefully. “Thanks Louis.”

They entered slowly, softening their steps to the officer’s bedside. Though he looked a lot better after being cleaned up and bandaged, he seemed so small and vulnerable that it hurt Kinch’s heart. He hated seeing people suffering, and it was only the knowledge that he might be able to help that gave him the courage to sit down on the edge of the bed. LeBeau moved to the corner of the bunk, out of Hogan’s sight but still within arm’s reach, and Kinch shared a look with him before putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Rob,” he whispered, leaning in close and repeating the name until the officer opened his eyes. The shock when their eyes met was quickly replaced with sadness. The spark, as the agent had put it, was gone, and Kinch fought down the dark fear that welled up. The colonel’s eyes lingered on his face.

“So’m finally dead,” he slurred quietly. 

Kinch shook his head, trying to choose his words. “You’re not dead,” he said slowly. “But you can’t give up. There’s a lot to do, and a lot of people that need you.” He hated putting the burden of responsibility on the man’s exhausted shoulders, but knew that it was possibly the only angle that would work. “Colonel, you gotta fight.”

Hazel eyes filled with pleading. It was a look Kinch had never seen in his friend before and it took his breath away. He opened his mouth to persuade more, but the colonel’s breathy voice beat him to it.

“But I want to stay with you.”

Kinch’s throat seized and he bowed his head to Hogan’s shoulder. Although the words had been too soft for LeBeau to hear, Kinch felt him rub his knee comfortingly. He straightened and squeezed the colonel’s arm. 

“You’ll see us again, I promise.” 

The sadness in Hogan’s eyes returned, flooding Kinch with their years of history together. Yet gradually, behind the sorrow, acceptance and determination bloomed. Finally, the colonel’s eyes fluttered closed. He gave the unique sigh that meant that he had accepted an especially difficult mission, and a flicker of hope lit in Kinch’s chest. For a moment he sat in silence, rubbing Hogan’s arm until his breaths had evened out in sleep, then nodded at LeBeau. They crept out of the room and immediately the other two were there, pressing close with worried expressions. 

“How’d it go?” begged Carter.

Kinch nodded, taking a deep breath. “It was ok. I think...he’ll do his best.” 

In somber silence they headed down to the tunnel, desperate to keep themselves busy, even if it was trivial duties. As they split up, Kinch lingered by the ladder, trying to think of something to do, before taking a few shaky steps down a side branch. 

A hand grabbed the back of his jacket, tugging him into an alcove, and Kinch cried into Newkirk’s collar. 

  
  


****

Long days passed, blurring together, and LeBeau was going out of his mind with helpless worry. Colonel Hogan slowly recovered. Wilson was allowed in his room, as were Schultz and Klink—anyone other than the four of them involved in the ‘incident.’ Though it killed LeBeau to stay away, he persevered for Hogan’s sake, and the four of them busied themselves with a plan to explain everything to Klink; a setup that worked perfectly and got two of the meanest guards transferred out. 

As the fifth day of careful supervision drew to a close, Wilson announced the colonel may have recovered enough for the truth, and that he would find a way to break the news. LeBeau and the others were instructed to wait outside the office door and be ready for anything. The men huddled nervously, just out of sight, as Sergeant Schultz finished his customary nightly visit. 

“Take care of yourself, Colonel Hogan!” the sergeant chirped. “It’s so good to see you up again!”

“Thanks Schultz,” came the soft reply. The colonel’s voice was different, and LeBeau struggled to keep his composure each time he heard it. Schultz took his leave with barely a glance to the group outside the door. Even he knew something was wrong, and had been forcefully cheery around them. 

With the door adjar, the four of them huddled as close as they dared. They could hear their leader pacing, still unsteady on his feet. The medic fussed but Hogan brushed him off, asking what story they had fed the krauts to explain his injuries. 

“No problem, sir,” Wilson said casually. “Kinch spun quite the yarn, complete with evidence.” The footsteps stopped abruptly, and LeBeau held his breath. 

“Kinch?” Hogan asked, tone unreadable. There was a pause, then Wilson sighed.

“Colonel, there’s something I need to tell you," he said calmly, and there was a creak as he supposedly sat at the table. “About three days after you were taken, a Gestapo officer came to this camp, walked into the barracks and demanded that Newkirk, Carter, Kinchloe, and LeBeau give him the uniforms they were wearing. He left camp with the clothes and we never saw him again.”

Still no sound came from the colonel, and LeBeau could imagine the wheels turning in the head. He wanted nothing more than to rush in, but the time had to be right. 

“Two days later,” Wilson continued, “Peter Pan showed up with Prince Charming.”

“Pr-”

“And Prince Charming had you,” Wilson interrupted. “He was deep in Gestapo headquarters and blew his cover to get you out. Told us everything they did, including how the pulled some POW’s and locals to double as your-”

“Where are they. _Where's my men?"_ the colonel boomed, as sharp and afraid as they had ever heard him. Before he had finished speaking Newkirk had lunged for the door and they all followed, tumbling into the room.

Hogan froze like a deer in the headlights, half gripping Wilson by the collar, who cast worried looks between them. Nobody moved. After a few seconds, Hogan looked at Wilson, gauging his response, then back at the men. His arms fell to his sides, and he took a hesitant step forward.

“What?” he said, a small, lost sound that drove knives into LeBeau’s already-aching chest.

“It wasn’t us they shot sir,” Newkirk panted. “Was some other poor sods that looked like us.”

Hogan was beginning to look overwhelmed, but squinted hard in concentration. “Why...” he began, and LeBeau anticipated the questions. 

“Guy in charge knew about the whole operation,” he said, stepping closer. “Wanted to keep us for interrogation later but still get to you.” At Hogan’s startled look, he clarified quickly. “They’re dead. Prince took them all out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You didn’t react very well when you saw us at first,” Kinch explained. For a moment Colonel Hogan didn’t move. His internal struggle was plain on his face, and LeBeau held his breath until his lungs hurt. Hogan stepped closer, reaching out to touch LeBeau’s cheek. 

“You’re alive?” he said quietly, looking at each of them. The hand on LeBeau’s face trembled. “But I saw...I…” His voice shook and he retracted his hand to rub his eyes. “No, no, no,” he muttered brokenly. “This is a dream.”

LeBeau wrapped his arms around the colonel’s middle, careful not to aggravate the wounds, and rested his head on Hogan’s chest. Hogan’s breathing grew unsteady and one of his hands clutched LeBeau’s sweater. 

“It’s not a dream, _colonel_ ,” LeBeau murmured. 

Carter was the next to move, plastering himself to Colonel Hogan’s back and wrapping his arms around both him and LeBeau. Kinch followed, moving in close to the colonel’s side and guiding his head to his chest. Hogan’s breathing became more labored. LeBeau felt tears drip onto his head, and his own eyes overflowed. Sensing an empty space, he peered towards Newkirk who was still frozen a few feet away, gazed fixed on them with wide, anguished eyes. 

  
****

Newkirk stood rooted to the floor. All the pain that had befallen his tiny group of friends crushed his chest like lead and made him sick. He swallowed hard, fighting to steady himself as he looked at the tears on their faces and the open space in the huddle, made for him. They needed him. He couldn’t let himself crumble under their pain, but it was his pain too, wasn’t it? That was the point, he reasoned. They would only get through it together. 

He stepped forward toward the four people he loved more than life itself. His boots clunking on the rough wooden floor and Colonel Hogan’s ragged breathing were the only sounds in the room, and like a magnet he was drawn to his commanding officer’s side. He pressed close in the space that had been left for him, the colonel’s shoulder digging into his chest. Instinctively his hand went to the man’s hair, brushing it from his face while the other hand tightly clasped the trembling shoulder. Each aborted breath sounded agonizing, as Hogan gasped in air and held it in an attempt to steady himself. He was trying so hard to keep from falling apart, and a wave of sorrow rose to Newkirk’s throat. 

“Breathe, sir,” he choked out. “It’s alright, just breathe.”

Hogan sucked in a deep breath, and the first exhale turned into a sob. The colonel’s hand latched onto Newkirk’s wrist, and the first tear trailed down the corporal’s cheek. He stood in silence, stroking through Hogan’s soft black hair as the body of his comrade and friend wracked with lung-crushing sobs. 

The sound pierced his very soul, touching a helpless sorrow Newkirk hadn’t felt since childhood, and he fought hard to keep his composure. LeBeau was silently weeping into the colonel’s nightshirt, and though he couldn’t see Carter’s face, he could feel the tremors from their youngest. Newkirk couldn’t bear to look at Kinch. He had already seen the tears on the sergeant’s face and could hear his soft, hitching breaths. They all stood, clinging to each other for what could have been moments or hours, until the colonel’s tears slowed and he began to slump in their arms. With a whisper, Kinch directed them in carrying the nearly-asleep Hogan to the bed. Instead of laying him down, Kinch maneuvered himself to sit against the head of the bed with Hogan settled on his chest. 

“I’m not leaving him,” the sergeant said quietly, and that was that. 

The colonel, thoroughly worn out and heedless of his surroundings, immediately drifted to sleep, and for a moment they all watched wordlessly. LeBeau stood beside the bed, trying to wipe tears from his face, and Newkirk pulled him into his side. Carter hovered near with that abandoned puppy look Newkirk had sworn to do anything to keep away, and he sighed, rubbing his face. 

“Come on, then,” he said. 

How they all managed to pile onto one bunk was a mystery to Newkirk, and he knew he would be complaining at any other time. As it was, he took comfort in being tangled and squished together, finding assurance in the sound of breaths and the pressure of sleep-warm bodies. He ended up sitting at the foot of the bunk with his legs on top of Kinch’s, LeBeau curled into his side and Carter’s head on his lap. Someone was bound to wake up with a cricked neck and at least one dead limb, but Newkirk couldn’t bring himself to move just yet. 

Kinch met his eye. For a while they just looked at each other, Kinch with his arms wrapped protectively around Hogan, and Newkirk with an arm over LeBeau and a hand in Carter’s hair. Newkirk had never been very good with words, and Kinch was quiet by nature, but in their shared gaze they could speak. He felt raw and hollowed out, and the emotion in Kinch’s eyes made his throat close up. Newkirk squeezed his eyes shut, trying to put himself back together. After a while, Kinch began humming. The low, soothing melody bled tension out of Newkirk’s body with every note, and he felt the others relax as well. 

The door opened quietly, and Newkirk cracked an eye. Wilson’s face peeked in, and when he saw the pile of soldiers, he smiled. The deep stresslines in his face softened and he nodded at Newkirk, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The darkness was incomplete. Lights from the compound filtered through the window slats and cast glowing filaments on the coarse structures of the room. In the safe blanket, Newkirk allowed a few more tears to fall. Tears of fear, of homesickness, of releif that they were all alive, and that the colonel would be alright. They would get through this. They would come out stronger, and keep fighting ‘till the whole bloody thing ended one way or another. 

The fires of war—the crucible of their own unique mission—had forged a complex and unbreakable bond to duty and to each other. They were on their own. Loyalties and military responsibilities were discarded; twisted into something new and dangerous in ways Newkirk often doubted but never regretted. They did what they had to, both to fight and defend, and the corporal knew better than to search too deeply for where exactly his loyalties lay. 

Surrounded by his brothers-in-arms, they in turn surrounding their leader who was so much more, a thought once again whispered in the back of his mind, one he hardly dared to wonder even in his weakest moments.

_Will we be able to live without each other after the war?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come join me on tumblr @hogans-heroes 
> 
> (kudos if you know where the inspiration for Hogan and Carter's scene came from!)


End file.
